在臺灣參加了 十全十美的格友會 後,回到美國的第二天,我就急忙翻箱倒櫃地把家中聖誕節的裝飾用品找出,佈置室內外. 太太笑我,馬不停蹄,又在為女兒忙了.

自從女兒開始她忙碌的記者生涯後,每年聖誕節總是來去匆匆,在家沒幾天就又要回工作崗位.但是不論多忙,聖誕夜時,在客廳的聖誕樹下總會有一份女兒很貼心的為兩老準備的禮物.　

2006年聖誕節,女兒送了我一個裱裝了一份剪報的鏡框.我本以為是她新近得獎的報導,但意外的那是她在當時服務的芝加哥 Beacon News 寫的一篇專欄.

讀了女兒的文章,擁著她,老爸再一次給了她一個聖誕諾言.

後來我把這篇文章譯成中文,曾經登在美國世界日報,也陸續被泰國世界日報,新華網,中國新聞網,及其他一些網站轉載. 聖誕快到了,把這篇文章引回自己的格裏,與格友們分享. 祝大家有個主恩滿滿的耶穌將臨期.

聖 誕 諾 言 　         王亭樂     (王念祖 譯)

　　我從沒相信過有聖誕老人. 多年來,在我家的聖誕樹下總有一份禮物,用的是令人啟疑的與我們家同樣的包裝紙,但是標籤寫的是:「給亭樂,聖誕老公公送」.

　　在乳臭未乾卻自認無所不知的歲月,我總是等待每一個可以拆穿爸媽西洋鏡的機會.聖誕節後的幾個星期內,他們兩人總有一個會先露餡,而我總是狡黠的設計好圈套,等著那「看你再怎麼賴」的興奮時刻.

　　　「我送妳的那個小皮包呢?」媽會這樣問,因為她忘了爸在禮物標籤上用扭曲筆跡寫的送禮者是誰.

　　　「妳送我的禮物?」一個得意忘形的十歲小女孩,提高了聲調,開始準備全面進擊.

　　　「你們不是說那是聖誕老公公送的嗎?」火柴棒般的小手插著腰,小屁股蹶的老高,我向她質詢:「看吧!我早說過,根本就沒有聖誕老人!」

　　　爸媽從未承認過他們的計謀.即使到現在,爸爸有時還會拿起一件用我們家同樣包裝紙的禮物,標籤寫著:「給老爸,聖誕公公送」──然後他還要故做驚喜的慢慢拆開他買給自己的禮物. 我一直不懂他們為什麼重覆不斷的玩著這種遊戲.即使我已離家五年了,他們每年還是不厭其煩地從車庫中翻箱倒篋的找出聖誕飾物,將浴室換上紅紅綠綠的毛巾,門口掛上媽媽自己編的花環,再將老爸手工自製的馬槽架好.畢竟,我的父母是第一代移民,他們以前絕不至於像美國人這樣大張旗鼓的慶祝聖誕.我不知道他們怎麼學會這種風俗,更別說為什麼他們樂此不疲了.

　　　今年,雙親要到西班牙度假十天,然後緊接著父親就要到法國出差六週,直到聖誕節前兩天才會返家.也就是說,如果要準備聖誕節的裝飾話,他必需在十月底的萬聖節前後,就要把房屋佈置好.

　　　「所以在萬聖節小孩子討糖的時候,你們就已經把戶外的聖誕燈點上了?」在電話中我簡直無法置信的問老媽.

　　　「妳忘了啊?」她回答說:「爸爸說他答應過你.」

　　　 夾雜在聖誕老公公與紅鼻子小鹿的童話中,我早忘了自己的聖誕故事.

　　　　雙親童年時,聖誕節放假只是因為那正巧是臺灣的行憲紀念日.他們拿到的不是包裝精美,標著「聖誕老公公送」的禮物,而只是西方國家捐贈的舊聖誕卡.戶外不可能有任何聖誕燈飾,他們甚至是到了美國之後才見過真正的聖誕樹.

　　　　父親開始為我們在德州的房子張燈結綵,是因為我說我好羨慕其他有聖誕燈飾的「美國房子」.在我大約八歲的那年,在院子幫老爸掛燈串時,我要他答應我,以後我們家每年都要有聖誕裝飾.

　　　　就這樣,年復一年──雖然我已不再幫他佈置聖誕,甚至發現自己每年回家過節的時間越來越短──老爸還是不辭辛勞的花幾個小時在屋外裝燈飾,老媽仍是堅持我們每個人都要穿上新衣在聖誕樹、房前、客廳、及壁爐旁,沒完沒了的拍家庭照.

　　　　一些小地方也許略有變動,諸如聖誕樹頂的星星換了,壁爐上掛的聖誕老人襪子變得更講究了,或是不再用金光閃閃的絲線做裝飾,但是主角依舊:門廊邊仍是那隻木製的馴鹿,那棵塑膠聖誕樹也依然架立在同樣的角落.

　　　　還有那個聖誕老公公──他總是會出現,不管我信不信. 因為老爸、老媽答應過我. 　　

A Christmas Promise Kep  By Justina Wang  Decemebter 20, 2006

I never believed in Santa.

For years, there was always one present under the tree, suspiciously covered in the same wrapping paper as the gifts from my family but tagged: "To: Justina, From: Santa."

As a know-it-all kid, I looked for every opportunity to catch my parents in the lie. One of them would inevitably slip weeks after Christmas passed, and I'd slyly form the trap, always savoring my bratty "gotcha" moment.

"Where's that little purse I got you?" Mom would ask, forgetting what name Dad had　scrawled on the gift tag.

"The present you got me?" I'd say clearly before pouncing like any smug 10-year-old would.

"I thought you guys said it was from Santa," I'd challenge, toothpick arms crossed, bony hip jutted out. "See, told you, there is no Santa!"

My parents never admitted to the ruse. Even now, my father will occasionally pick up a present covered in the same wrapping paper as all our other gifts but tagged: "To: Dad, From: Santa" -- and he'll feign surprise as he slowly opens his self-bought present.

I never understood why they kept up the charade, or why five years after I moved out they'd still go through the enormous process of sorting through the boxes in the garage, switching out the bathroom towels for green and red ones, hanging up my mother's homemade wreath, putting together the wooden manger my Dad built. After all, my immigrant parents didn't always celebrate Christmas the ostentatious way Americans did, and I never knew how they picked up the tradition, let alone clung to it.

This year, my parents had planned a 10-day vacation to Spain that ended just before my father's six-week business trip to France, which wraps up  two days before Christmas. That meant, in order to get the house ready for the holidays, the decorations would have to go up right around Halloween.

"So you guys are going to have Christmas lights outside of the house while the kids are trick-or-treating?" I asked my Mom incredulously on thephone.

"Don't you remember?" she replied. "Your father said he promised you."

In between all the tales of Santa and reindeers, I'd lost track of our own Christmas story. As children, my parents celebrated Christmas only because Dec. 25 was also the day Taiwan enacted its constitution. The presents they got weren't wrapped with "From: Santa" tags, but used Christmas cards donated from churches in Western countries. Lights on the outside of the house were strictly forbidden, and they never saw a Christmas tree until they moved to the U.S.

My father began decorating our house in Texas when I said I envied all the nicely-lit "American" homes. One year, when I was about 8 years old and helping Dad string up the lights outside, I asked him to promise that we'd always have Christmas decorations.

So year after year -- even as I stopped helping with the decorations and found less and less time to spend at home for the holidays -- my Dad would spend hours outside stringing up the lights, while my mom insisted we dress up and take endless family photos beside the tree, in front of the house, in the dining room, in front of the fireplace.

Little things change, like a new star atop the tree or fancier stockings or a rule of no more tacky tinsel, but the staples will always be there: the wooden reindeer in the entrance, the same old plastic tree in the same old corner.

And Santa -- he's always there, whether I believe in him or not.

Mom and Dad promised they'd keep it that way.